Truths and T-Rex's

Ok, back to me.

I was very grateful for my guest blogger this week as I have been sick with the flu. Pretty sure it was the dreaded Man Flu. My eyeballs hurt and I thought I was dying. I was contemplating if I should call an ambulance or the morgue.

But I am pleased to tell you I beat death.

Probably because of my amazing XX chromosomes.

Anyway, I thought I would share a list of truths about yours truly. Sharing is caringJ Let’s get to know each other better. I’ll go first, after all it’s my blog.

1)   I’m a PK. My mom is a pastor. Yup, the Right Reverend Mother. Should explain some things right? You know what they say, ‘Pastors kids and cop kids….’ J

2)   My brother-in-law is a cop. Not that this matters, nor is it really about me, but he has been feeling left out that I haven't written about him yet. I love him like the brother I never had growing up.

3)   Dylan and I were dating for two and a half months when I became pregnant. Please refer to #1 and imagine that conversation with my parents. “Mom and dad, I’d like you to meet Dylan. Oh, and by the way…..”

4)   I didn't find out I was pregnant until after I was 10 weeks along. I was 24 and working as a cocktail waitress while I finished school. This may explain any of their struggles in math. And science.

5)   I did not get married because I was pregnant. I knew I would marry him...it just sorta sped things up. I love him more today than 13 and a half years ago. It also helps that I now know his middle name.

6)   Parts of me are fake. This does not embarrass me, nor am I afraid to talk about it.  When I was laying down one day and found my nipple in my armpit, I decided it was time.  That and the time I ran a 5km run for Breast Cancer Awareness and mistakenly wore pink. Everyone assumed I was a survivor and was cheering me on. I felt like an imposter. They are for me, not Dylan. He’s always been an ass man.

7)   They are fantastic. Really fantastic.

8)   I HATE green peppers. They ruin my life. They are the devil’s vegetable.

9)   I LOVE to pick and pop zits. I believe there are two kinds of people in this world: pickers and non-pickers. I am a picker. I have been known to pick at Dylan and my girlfriends like a Rhesus monkey. I sometimes watch You Tube videos of giant cysts being popped to relax. If you have a zit, I promise you I will stare at it and please know that I am imagining popping it.

I just got goose bumps of thrill.

10)   I have a very weird fascination with T-Rex's. They make me happy. Seriously, if you are having a bad day, just imagine a T-Rex trying to put on a hat. Or a cardigan.

You are smiling right now aren’t you? Your welcome.

T-Rex’s are what this post is really about. I added the ‘about me’ list as a way to introduce my Dino-Love in a way that made it seem somewhat normal and less random. I should just give up trying at this point.

I have spent many hours entertaining myself (with some less than normal friends) imagining different activities for a T-Rex. One of my favorite friendship memories is from a recent girls trip to Arizona. After a few glasses of red wine, a late night swim turned into the T-Rex summer Olympics. Trust me when I tell you that T-Rex’s would suck ass at synchronized swimming and I am convinced that lack of skill in the breaststroke is the reason they are extinct. Poor things drowned and didn’t stand a chance with those stumpy little arms.  

I am now sharing my T-Rex joy with the world.

Imagine:

·      A T-Rex Flight attendant. “The exits are here, here, here and here”. I’m sorry, where the hell are the exits? I feel confused and unsure about my safety in the event of an emergency. Can you show me how that oxygen mask works one more time?

·      A T-Rex Square Dancing Competition. That’s a whole lotta dosey-don’ts.

·      A T-Rex trying to make a snow angel. Poor little T-Rex’s and their lack of childhood winter joy. That's just called a snow blob.

·      A T-Rex Rowing Team. FAIL. Oars in the water assholes!  Same idea for boxing. Dude…the point is to HIT him!

·      A T-Rex playing darts, archery, shot put, javelin or baseball. Really anything in the throwing related category. They would always be picked last and that’s just sad.  And awesome to visualize.

·      T-Rex Village people. Who doesn’t love a good rendition of the YMCA?

T-Rex’s that’s who.

·      T-Rex Self Care. Mascara and lip-gloss are out. Wiping their ass…nope. Itchy bum? Sorry about your luck. Bat in the cave? No nose picking possible. How embarrassing.

I have more. Lots more. It’s become an obsession.

So think of me when you are lucky enough to see anything T-Rex related.

And smile.

I would also like to know random things about you!! I promise I won’t tell a single person.

Shhhh, it’s our secret. Go ahead…tell me.

Xo J

 Smiling yet?

The Hook

Are you on the edge of your seats? Have you been able to sleep? Relax…the time is here!!

Geesh, do you get this excited for my posts?

After reading Robert’s following letter of apology to his daughter for his many parenting faux pas, I can tell you this:

1)   My children are NEVER watching Glee again. I wouldn’t be able to handle such a question.

2)   I have never seen the movies Robert mentions and I have never stepped foot in a comic store...and I intend to keep it that way. Sarah, you are a good daughter.

3)   Although I bitch about my kids and have my eyes set on the prize of them moving out; I am not, nor will I ever be ready for the next stage of parenting.

4)   I have confirmed that teenage eye rolling is universal

Now without further delay…I introduce you to ‘The Hook’.

When Jessica first offered me the opportunity to guest post on her slice of cyber real estate, I was surprised - you can certainly understand why - but Jessica has proven herself to be extremely gracious and forgiving towards someone who tends to act before he thinks. My initial comments on this blog were born of a sense of concern for Jessica's children and to my eternal regret, feelings of great envy. I have been fighting for years to achieve that which Jessica has carved out for herself in a matter of weeks. But that was then. We've come a long way, haven't we, Jessica?

 

While I think her approach was brilliant, I know it wouldn't work for a father. If I went on strike, my household would probably run more efficiently than ever. Women are hardwired for parenthood, they have a God-given set of skills that allow them to always be quick on their feet and above all, to be sensitive to their family's needs.

I once bought my wife a toilet seat and a set of cupboard knobs for Mother's Day.

In my defense, the seat looked like an oyster shell and the knobs had flowers on them. Women love men who strive to improve the room they spend a great deal of their time in, right?

Don't answer that.

As for my approach to fatherhood, well it tends to follow suit. Here then, is my public apology to my fourteen-year-old daughter for the occasional parenting faux pas I've been responsible for.

I apologize for sidestepping questions like, "What's scissoring?" when we're watching Glee, by sending you to your mother - when she then sends you right back to me for an answer. I just needed the extra time to Google the definition... and to "water it down enough" to ensure you would accept it and not ask one of your friends instead.

Of course, there have been times that the direct approach hasn't exactly worked for me: when you asked me why Megan Fox was fired from the Transformers franchise I probably didn't need to recount the entire Holocaust. For those scratching their heads right now, Fox compared director Michael Bay to Hitler. At least it made for an interesting ride home from the movies, right?

Incidentally, I also have to apologize for dragging you to the last Transformers installment. I can still feel the weight of your glare as Rosie Huntington-Whiteley's scantily-clad form jiggled all over the screen. On the subject of movies, I admit the Green Lantern film was another cinematic mistake you can attribute to me. That was 114 minutes of bad judgment on my part, to be precise.

Just so you know, I'm making an honest effort to let your mother handle your laundry now; seven years of hearing about the wanton destruction of your favorite Strawberry Shortcake t-shirt has sunk in, I swear.

All those times I tried to be the "Cool Dad", only to fall slightly short? Please chalk those up to good intentions and my tendency to ignore your mother when she tells me "You're going to look like a huge dork! More than usual, if that's possible!"

Then there's the weekly trips to various comic book stores, which tend to be overrun by the, shall we say, socially-challenged members of our society? I swear, they mean well, honey. Personally, I've almost gotten used to that vacant look in your eyes as you scan the crowds at these stores (and the comic-cons I take you too), searching for a glimmer of normalcy, only to come up short. Every. Single. Time. As for your weekly query: "How did you ever get Mom to go out with you?" Well, if Mom ever gives me answer, I'll pass it along.

I know I've barely scratched the surface, but I'm going to launch a preemptive strike and discuss the future. As you get older and fully immerse yourself in teenage culture, you're going to see a change in dear ol' dad. To be frank, I'm going to go off the rails at times. Your mother and I have discussed this at length and we agreed that out of the two of us, I'm the best suited to play the crazy parent.

I'm sure you agree.

So when you bring home that first suitor, just ignore the baseball bat peeking out from behind the front door. Oh, and pay no attention to the shotgun that will suddenly be hanging above the mantle. That reminds me, we have to get a mantle.

I apologize for the times I'll have to play detective when you go out wearing slightly more make-up and upscale outfits, and go all CSI on your room. I promise to never read your diary. I'll let your mother take care of that.

The day you tell us you've found that special someone and you'll be walking down the aisle? Just give me a few minutes to myself. Being partly responsible for bringing such a perfect person into the world can really mess with a dad's head when he realizes he has to let go... a little bit, at least.

And that's as far into the future as I want to look, sweetheart. So the next time I mess up, and I will - I've already been responsible for two of the five eye rolls you've done as this post has been written - just remember that my mistakes spring from a place of love and respect. I'd admire you even if you weren't my daughter.

And yes, I realize that one is going to prompt another eye roll. What can I say? It's a gift.

Thank you Robert. A lot. Thank you for taking the time to write and share this on my blog. For your kindness (finally J) and our new bloggy friendship.

And for your honesty.

In regards to both your parenting and your words relating to our past.

What do you think folks?

xoJ

Jazz Hands

Life sometimes presents unexpected situations we can use to teach our kids hands-on lessons. There are also lessons in these situations for us as adults. Sometimes I wonder whom the lesson sticks more for, or if those situations are put in our lives to make us practice what we preach.

I like being right…so lets go with that.

For those of you that have followed this blog throughout the media shit storm created by ‘The Strike’, you will know there were some less than pleasant responses. I offered one personal response to it and have since then kept my promise and kept my mouth and fingers shut.

Most of the negativity was on the multitude of articles available on line, not here on my blog. With the exception of one person who just seemed to always be here to make an adverse comment. This one person tested everything in me to keep quiet, to keep my resolve and to rise above. Many bottles of wine were required.

No matter what I posted, this person was there with his relentless opinions of my parenting, even after I had publicly declared my zero tolerance for negativity on this blog.

But yet, he still came.

Every. Single. Post.

Appears I had myself a stalker.

I actually began waiting for him. He intrigued me; yet to be honest, he pissed me off beyond belief. I cannot tell you how many times I sat down and crafted a venomous email to tell him exactly where to go and how to get there.

Only to delete it and keep my promise to remain quiet.

You all may be applauding me for taking the high road. Don’t. The truth is, I wanted to find him and punch him in the throat.

Between my trips from NYC to LA, I figured out that you could click the name of the commenter (zip it…this is all new to me remember) and link along to their own blog. The day I did, I was able to see where he was at in his own life. I didn’t feel sorry for him, instead his words made everything make sense to me. Even though his blog post was not very nice in regards to yours truly, it made me feel I knew him. To understand.

I felt compassion...ugg. 

However, his words and some of his reader’s comments still made my blood boil. I had upgraded him from a punch in the throat to wishing an anal exam without benefit of lube, from a doctor with very long fingers who had forgotten to trim their nails.

With an audience.

On live TV.

I stopped deleting his comments. Partly because I was away and had no access to my computer; but mostly because something was nagging at me to leave them up. He had gotten under my skin, and for those that know me well, that does not happen very often.

When I wrote about agents, irony and my accidental future being handed to me on a silver platter, I was writing about him.

A stranger had pissed me off more than I can express, yet I couldn’t shake him out of my mind.

Throughout my silence, he and his comments still emerged on my blog. But his words eventually became nicer, supportive, encouraging and complimentary. I began to respond to his progressive reactions.  And he responded to mine.

I became a regular of his blog and he stayed one here.

My girls were able to see my lesson in action. Shit, it was one of the harder parenting tests I have had. I’m a vocal kind of gal. I’m the ‘gonna let you know how I feel’ type of person. Usually my inside voice doesn’t stay inside for very long. More often than not it gets me into trouble.

My girls were able to see the power of silence and the importance of getting to know someone before passing judgment. They witnessed that in order for someone to fight, they need to have someone to fight back with.

All of the above applies to me as well.

We have a motto in this house. Be Kind.

Kindness on both sides has led me to a new friend.

You all know him as “You’ve Been Hooked”.

I now know him as Robert.

Robert is the author behind the blog You’ve Been Hooked. More importantly he is a hardworking husband and a father to a 14-year-old daughter. Robert is a man with a dream that he is putting into reality; he has written a book and is facing the uphill struggle to have people that matter notice.

I have been contacted by many people asking to be a guest blogger here on my blog. That’s what all the cool bloggers are doing don't ya know. Geesh, keep up. I have turned them all down as I get my bloggy feet wet and find my own writing voice.

After some thought, I decided I would host a guest blogger and the one I wanted to premier was, yup you guessed it, “You’ve Been Hooked”.

It seemed fitting…even though he had never asked me. I wrote him a very honest email about my feelings regarding our past and invited him to be a guest blogger with some strings attached. Namely, I was going to write about all that you have just read.

Much to my surprise, he agreed.

Robert has been working on a piece about parenting for you all to enjoy here. 

Simmer down…I’m gonna make you wait for it. 

With my obvious knack for long windedness added to his own words, it was just simply to long and would end up being a book unto it’s own.

And I have my limits giving away free stuff. 

So I’m gonna hype that shit up and leave you all hanging until my next post. Robert's post.

I think if I met Robert in person he would have a very dry sense of humour. Pay close attention…his wit may be missed on those that are a few crayons short. Check out his blog and his very frank observations of the human race. Most importantly, when he writes of his family you can actually feel his adoration.

The world needs more dads like Robert Hookey.

Plus, you all know I love being right.

Jazz hands Robert, jazz hands!!

xo J

Forks, Frogs and Foxes

We have many off limit words at this house. Obviously the usual run of the mill profanity is on this list, but also included is our family ‘swear words’ that are a big no no.

Like a 'watch mom’s eyes pop out of her head and run for your life' no no.

The Family Swear words include:

1.     Shut up

2.     Stupid

3.     Retard

4.     Gay (or any variation if not used properly, as in ‘happy’ or respectfully referring to homosexuality)

5.     Hate

6.     Idiot

Such a good mom raising respectful, polite, well-spoken children right? Another Gold Star for me please.

Disclaimer: Mom you may want to stop reading here.

Ummm, Jess, if these words are off limits…what about your use of  ‘occasional’ profanity in your writing? Hypocrite. No shit, I am a grown up. Put on your hand cupped ear-muffs if needed and let’s get on with it shall we.

Let’s get one thing straight peeps; I’m not hoping to submit this as a Berenstain Bears Book with Mama Bear teaching her cubs a lesson on manners. This blog is not the Hungry Caterpillar munching its way through an apple and I will not be saying Good Night to the moon with you. Besides, I think my use of expletives has been somewhat limited and I have shown great restraint. It’s very well placed if you ask me. Funny shit.

I think it’s hysterical when a small person (as in children, not little people..ok that too) drops the F bomb.

Toddler Olivia couldn’t say the word fox. Let me tell you how much fun I had watching Dora.

“Swiper No Swiping!!  Get away bad Fucks.”

Toddler Quinn struggled saying the word fork. I almost lost my shit one morning when at the tender age of three she asked me for a fucking knife (fork and knife) so she could eat her pancakes.

Quinn also referred to fried (flattened) eggs as ‘fucking eggs’ for a good two years. It made preparing breakfast worth getting out of bed even without a mimosa. “Mommy, can I please have a fucking egg?”

Thank you for remembering your manners Quinn. Good job.

My three-year old niece just learned to say frog properly. Let me tell you how many toy frogs I bought for her just so I could hear her excitedly say “fuck Auntie fuck”.

Emily, tell Auntie what animal says ‘ribbet’. Clever girl!!

All of these words became a regular family activity when at my mother’s house…just to see her reaction. Dance puppet dance.

Perhaps my favorite is when a child can use the word in context. When Peyton was three, she came upon her little sister playing with her markers in the kitchen. As soon as she noticed the massive violation of her property she calmly turned to Dylan with her hands in the air and asked “What the fuck daddy?”

Dylan called me at work and explained the story in panic asking what parenting direction he should take. My response was hard to hear through my laughter. “Are you shitting me? Who the fuck taught her that?”

Don’t answer that.

In hindsight, perhaps I should have been more cognizant that little ears keep listening when mommy is talking on the phone. But I blamed Dylan and his road rage language when driving with the kids in the back seat. Shame on him!

At least Peyton didn’t have any linguistic challenges and I was very impressed with her syntax. Smart little child.

As they grow, our family’s off limit list of words still remains the same. But I am learning that they cannot be shielded from the world’s profanity for very long. School, sports, and ok sometimes me (but mostly Dylan) lends for a premature loss of innocence that makes me want to sprinkle magic fairy dust to keep them sheltered in my house forever.

The other day Peyton and Olivia were explaining to me that someone at school got in trouble for saying the “C” word.  Are you shitting me?

My eyes grew as big as saucers, my heart raced and in what seemed like an eternity I racked my brain for what the ‘C’ word could possibly be in grade 7.

Crap? Cupcakes? Crazy? Cookies?  

Surely they weren’t talking about the actual word at the age of 12. I asked what word they were talking about, holding my breath for the answer I really didn’t want to hear.

They asked me if I knew what word they were talking about; I assured them I did. They finally rolled their eyes at me, told me the word and then proceeded to tell me what it meant. Then they asked me if I already knew what it meant. Really?

All I could think was that I am clearly under qualified for this parenting job. Who the hell hired me? It’s going to fast and I haven’t even taken the Level II Certification Course yet.

I stopped by the wine store on the way home for an extra bottle and couldn’t even get the words out to Dylan to explain why I was drinking before dinner.

It had to be wine thirty somewhere.

See you next timeJ

Xo J

Don’t forget to likey the linkey to your right and tell all your friends. Hellooooooo….magical wine fairies.

CASTING CALL

CASTING CALL! I have been asked to share this message from the Steve Harvey Show in Chicago. They are looking for moms closer than all of you that stepped up in December from Canada. 

Please share this message:) Tweet it, Facebook it, Pin it...did I miss anything?

"NBC Chicago based show casting married mom's with children, over the age's of 10 years old, who need a break and would love to go on Strike."
Please contact Trina.dailey@steveharveytv.com
312-836-4830

I'll bring the wine:)
J